‘Two favours,’ I say. ‘One, go over to the Paradise and tell a girl called Kemi that a rich admirer is waiting for her in the coffee shop. Two, park your motorbike around the back of this building and sit on it with the keys in the ignition.’ I deal him five $10 bills and say I’ll give him the rest after a ride to the edge of town. He looks around the coffee shop, the peeling lino and buzzing flies, old men smoking. I know the answer.
‘Kemi?’ he confirms. I nod. ‘I know her.’ He puts the money down the front of his pants then straddles his bike and revs the engine. The other waiter shouts something but he opens the throttle and spins out a turn. I hear the bike thrummed down an alley between this building and the next. The engine stops and my getaway vehicle and driver enter through the back door. He looks at me, nods, and takes off his apron. He looks young walking across the road in his football shirt. I feel guilty for buying a favour, but I’m out of options.
The American only glances at the waiter as he enters. He greets one of the Kenyan men with a nod. Once past the front door I lose him in the glitzy lights and smoke. And then the sluggish clock ticks. Two minutes or twenty would feel the same until he comes back across the road. I have my eye on the rear door, and curse myself that I didn’t ask for the bike keys as part of the bargain. Before the waiter returns to my table he ties his apron back on. Then he says, ‘She coming.’
Kemi has made me wait long enough to drain a second bottle of beer. The American stops her at the entrance. I guess he asks why one of his staff is taking a break. She points to the café. I push my chair against the wall, away from the glare of the naked bulb. Even from this distance I can see she’s a beauty. She comes walking across the dirt street as though a red carpet’s been rolled out. She wears a skin-tight dress with a circle cut-out to reveal her pierced navel. Her scraped-back hair shines. And when she flashes her eyes at the waiter, I understood how Dominic Toon had crumbled.
The old men smoking at the next table turn to watch her sit down. She snaps something in Swahili and they go back to their cigarettes and tea.
‘So?’ she says curtly. ‘You want to go somewhere?’
‘Here is fine.’
‘Fine for what? I not some cheap girl who’ll fuck you in café.’
‘No, no.’ I say. ‘I just want to ask you a couple of questions.’
Then she kicks the chair back and stands to leave. ‘You waste my time. I have people to pay money and this is costing me.’
I pull $50 from my wallet. ‘Sit down,’ I say. ‘Tell me about Dominic Toon.’ She takes the bill and tucks it into her bra. Then she sits. I look over her shoulder to the Paradise and see we’re being watched. I nod at the waiter to sit on his bike.
He undoes his apron once more, stands nervously at the end of the counter and says, ‘I wait here.’
Kemi taps her varnished nails on the wooden table. ‘Who you want to know about?’
I say his name again. She shakes her head. This is getting expensive, I think, pulling out $50 more. She has the money palmed and inside her bra with the sleight of a magician.
‘Yes, an English boy. He look like that rock star. About a week ago. He very kind. And generous.’
I ask if she knows where he is now. She shrugs her shoulders and looks to the street. I unpeel another $50 and again she quickly steals it away.
‘I not sure, but I know he came from Australia because he try to give me Australian dollars. I say no good, he have to change them.’
Before I ask another question, I notice the waiter fidgeting, sweating, glancing back towards the Paradise. The American and his two Kenyan thugs stride across the road. I have about five seconds. ‘Where’s he now?’
She smiles and says, ‘This a big planet.’
Nearly $100 flutter out when I empty the wallet on to the table. ‘Where?’ I shout, but she’s too busy collecting the notes to answer.
Now I’ve stood I’m out of the shadow, revealed by the yellow of the naked bulb. The American shouts something from the middle of the road and starts running.
‘The bike,’ I snap. ‘Go.’ The waiter is a deer in the headlights, frozen with the keys in his hand. I rip them off him. He moves to take them back and I clip him under the chin. He falls, clattering over the chairs.
The American has paused on the street outside the café, and the Kenyans are shooing customers from the outside tables. No witnesses to my murder. Then the American storms inside. He pulls a matt black handgun from beneath his shirt. I tip tables and duck out the back door, run for my life.
And Kemi is a step in front, kicking off her heels and running, turning only to shout, ‘Home. Your boy gone home.’ Then she darts between the buildings.
Her voice is the last thing I hear before the revved engine. And the gunshots. I accelerate up the street between bullets, the first one fizzing past my left ear, the next shattering the rear window of a taxi. I twist back the throttle and lean into the rushing wind.
And I guess I broke the wrist he uses to shoot with, because he empties the entire clip without finding the target.
Terra Incognita
The resurrected hadn’t tended the flames, though I swear I’d have preferred a ghost as company to the burning bike. And the black smoke? Just the sump oil, leaking on to the glowing embers and igniting in the wind. No one’s come to stretcher me home. And the reverend still grins from the grave. Now with a told you so look to his smile.
Have built up the fire and unscrewed the front mudguard from the forks and started digging. Well, if digging is the right word for a one-handed cripple and a mudguard. And no water yet, so I’m writing this as an excuse to rest.
No, that’s a lie. I don’t care about rest. I’m writing to stop myself from vanishing. Physically, mentally, and spiritually, I’m fading away. I could dig my way back to London, to Paris, if you were by my side. I’m writing because I need my existence confirming. How do I know I’m alive without another human being to verify my soul?
I’m used to being alone, no brothers or sisters. No family. But then you came along, shared your heart and soul, wanted mine. And I know I insisted on riding this stretch of desert by myself, to prove something, to resolve what had gone before and examine my life beneath this lens of sky. What I do know is that I’ve never wanted someone so much as I do you.
Morning. And the undertakers are here.
Woke to the squawk of two vultures perched on the bank. They wear their ragged wings in the style of funeral directors, two sombre men in long, dark coats, waiting. Maybe they think my well a self-dug grave?
I threw handfuls of stones at them, and missed. Though I landed a few close enough to scuttle them into the bush. For now. They’ll be back. All morning I’ve listened to their cackles. I wish I’d bought the air rifle a Danish backpacker offered me in Katherine. I’d put a pellet between their beady eyes and roast them on the fire, skewered on a spoke like a kebab.
But what would I drink to wash them down? My well is four feet deep, and though the sand is damp, water isn’t gushing from the earth.
Again: two plus two equals three. Now the sun is up I’m pouring with sweat.
0.9 l of water remaining.
Took off all clothes to cool down and wait out the afternoon heat. Will dig again this evening. Slumped naked in the shade of the creek bank, opposite the bones of the reverend, twirling his silver cross between my fingers. ‘Do you expect me to start praying?’ I asked. ‘Forget it,’ I called out. ‘My fate is in my hands. Not yours. Not God’s.’
I felt stupidly powerful making these claims, the uncontested ruler of the void where I’m stranded. Then I heard my own voice echoing. ‘Crazy fucker,’ I shouted. ‘Talking to a pile of bones.’ My words ricocheted along the narrow banks of the creek and flew into the great blue sky, gone.
I’ve not seen another human being for three days. Not a long time, but neither have I seen evidence of life beyond lizards and birds. The silence is crushing. But then no, it’s not silence, because there’s wi
nd and swaying bush, the crackling fire and hungry vultures. It’s loneliness that’s crushing. I had to fly to the bottom of the world and die in a desert to realise life is about other people.
I think of Miguel, a motorbike courier I worked with zigzagging parcels through the streets of London. We were standing in the shadow of St Paul’s Cathedral, dealing laughs and jokes with the other riders, when Miguel lifted off his bag and dropped it to the pavement. ‘Theeis city,’ he announced, before looking to the glinting towers of finance and banking, Sir Christopher Wren’s great dome, another busload of camera-toting tourists, and the technicolour brokers in lurid jackets, looking for all the world like ice-cream sellers rushing to save melting stock, ‘is a lie. A great beeg lie.’
He emptied the contents of his bag on to the kerb, brown and white letters stamped urgent, and rode all the way back to his village in northern Spain.
Right now, it’s that lie I want to be a part of.
The dying sun has ten minutes to live. Strafed cloud hangs like purple bunting, and I’m spooning coffee granules directly into my mouth. Will the caffeine buzz last long enough for me to dig down to the buried river? I have hopes of a fountain whooshing me into the air. Though the best I can expect is a mire of fetid water.
I’m sorry I’ve left our little cottage unfinished. Now the painkillers have run out, and my leg is burning agony, my right shoulder numbed and left arm jelly from the digging, I have the focus to build our petite palace.
I dare not read back this letter. A macho Englishman would shudder admitting he needed someone so much. I want to write this every time I put pen to page, but I’m afraid of scaring you with the strength of my emotion, my love. I wish I’d gathered the courage to tell you this when we said au revoir at Threeways junction. I promise I’m not just declaring it now because I’m only a drop of water from thirst.
It’s dark now, and I must dig, scratch and burrow for my life. I’ve built up the blaze and dragged it to the edge of my hole. Half naked, covered in dirt and lit by the flames of a desert fire, it’s only the dream of our stone cottage that reminds me I’m human.
Nearly sunrise. I’ve dug all night without rest, and my left palm is blistered and raw. Blood covers the mudguard shovel. I’m completely naked and black with dirt. Stripped off again so I wouldn’t sweat and fade away before morning. Now I emerge from my hole, earth-dark and wild, a muddied beast of the underworld blinking in the daylight.
I’m about to gulp down my final water. There should be some ceremony to commemorate my farewell to H2O. I should thank the two hydrogen atoms and the oxygen hanger-on, for everything they’ve done. From floating a single cell in the Cambrian seas, to filling swimming pools and water pistols. I wonder how much longer the 60 per cent of my body that’s water will remain.
To the stuff of life. A la votre!
Not moved for three hours. The less I move the less I’ll evaporate. I want to sleep, but eating coffee all night has frayed my nerve endings. Until I dream away the heat and thirst, I’m taking slow and measured breaths, calming my beating heart, conserving strength. I close my eyes from the bones of the reverend and see the cottage. The second floor is complete, the rafters fixed in the brickwork. I’m awaiting the delivery of the slates so I can climb into the sky and nail a roof above our heads.
Even when a snake slithered along the bed of the creek I didn’t stir. Maybe I could’ve killed it and drank the blood? But I was hypnotised by the muscle of light, the forked tongue of a bible villain. I don’t know this species, whether it’s venomous or not. In this land I’m as innocent as Adam before the fall. I’m a trespasser, an alien. There could be a water hole ten feet from this spot, an ice-cold bore deep enough for me to submerge my entire body. But I don’t have this knowledge. I know every station on the Central Line, the name of each prime minister since the war, that Buzz Aldrin was the second man on the moon, a byte is a group of bits, who shot John Lennon, Mg is the symbol for magnesium, slugs and snails belong to the Gastropoda class, the speed of light is 2.997 924 58 x 10(8) metres per second, Reginald Dwight changed his name to Elton John, a zygote is a fertilised egg, and that evaporation is to change from a liquid or solid state to a vapour.
I’m becoming air through ignorance.
I’m going to find out which plants have moisture, which ones will double me up with stomach cramps, poison my blood, or keep me alive.
I’ve not eaten myself to death, yet. My stomach churns, but I doubt it’s fatal. Took my knife and crawled on to the ridge. Hacked off root ends and waxy leaves, peeled back the bark from a small tree and dug out the pithy trunk. Even before the sun rose high enough to be a burden on my back, I twice had to rest from dizzy spells. No danger of falling as I’m already on the ground, but when the horizon tilted I thought I’d be rolled from the Earth.
I crawled into the shade of a clump of spinifex and chewed on my bounty of twigs. What to eat and what not took Aborigines generations of trial and error, death and sickness. I have two days. The roots and leaves I’ve gathered are so dry they cut my mouth. The tree has a tongue-shrinking tang. Maybe the reverend wandered outside for a snack and never returned?
Although I knew I had to get back to the solid shade of the creek, my body refused to move, and despite the baking sun, I lost the will to whip it onwards.
Then the nourishment I needed walked on to my plate. A line of honey ants marched along the red sand, each one fat with a glowing, bulbous backside. To keep the highway moving, I took every other ant, pinching the head and sucking the sweet sac into my parched mouth. For ten minutes I lay on my stomach, naked and scratched, only the dirty splint evidence I’d once been tame, and popped ant manna on to my swollen tongue. An entire colony was unwittingly sacrificing itself for my survival. And when the traffic ceased flowing I chased after the stragglers, picking, sucking, and devouring as I crawled.
Even though this meagre offering jolted my body into life, I’m wondering about possible psychoactive ingredients. Again, and this time without sleeping, I’ve seen him, the dead reverend, living. Maybe the heat wobble rising from the sands, or the shadows of bushes and rocks, conspiring with my broken mind, conjured up his presence.
I’ll tell you what I saw without exaggeration, as much to confirm and comfort myself. And I say this understanding that the brain must convert what we see into meaning, that sight is subjective, a sense warped with experience, language, knowledge, and belief – or their absence.
I saw a white man in a black coat, the reverend. He stood and waved. He beckoned me to follow. Each time he waved he vanished and reappeared a little farther away, still signalling me to follow. When I snapped, ‘Get a fucking grip,’ and turned back to the creek, he was right there before me, a shadow rising from the sand, red-haired and portly, the silver cross missing from his leather necklace.
Of course, he wasn’t physically there. I’m a mirage-maker, just as others who’ve perished in the desert have projected their minds on to the screen of sky and sand, summoning cities from rocks and lakes from clouds. The lucky ones stumble and die in an oasis of palms, or maybe a harem filled with veiled and perfumed queens.
Dehydration will bring on more headaches, dizziness, organ failure, and at some point, delirium. I must be aware of what I’m doing. One wrong decision could be the difference between life and death.
Time has stopped. The sun is neither rising nor setting. I’m the burning ant beneath a magnifying glass. Somewhere in the cloudless sky a malevolent hand focuses the flames, pinning me to a sliver of shade in this scorched creek.
Falling in and out of shivering sleep – even though sweltering. Have begun licking sweat from body to conserve water. Is this conducive to staying alive?
I’m waiting, but for what? Rescue? Though the smoke still lifts from the embers of the bike, no one’s come to investigate, to save me.
Early evening, I think. Could be tomorrow, or even morning again. Can hear the vultures cackling and fighting, somewhere close. How much do the
y know about prophesising death?
Even writing tiring.
Please come and take me home.
Woke terrified to the sound of screaming. I saw two reverends fighting for their lives on the opposite bank, scratching and gouging, fingers in eyes and teeth bared, their black frocks wild and flapping.
But of course it wasn’t the reverends. The frocks and teeth were the wings and talons of the vultures, feathers flying and hook bills snapping. I’m at least enough of a meal to be fought over. If I had the energy I’d stone them. If I had the energy I’d pull the skeleton from the bank and smash it to pieces. My life over his death.
Just after darkness fell I heard singing. Beautiful choral singing. Hymns. I crawled towards the sound, up and over the bank. The tumbledown ruin had been transformed to a church filled with light and song.
Yes, I know what I’ve seen and heard is a dying brain playing tricks. But I’m going to follow the mirage because it’s all that’s left. I’m going to church, an outback sermon calling me across the sands.
I’ll crawl towards the stars of the southern cross, a sign pointing to the end of something.
I’ve heard no more singing, nor seen the church. I’m just a fool sitting under the stars, writing by the glow of a burning bush I ignited with the lighter. I’ve had to perform my own miracles. No flames from heaven, no commandments etched in stone, just a flint and a little petrol.
When the bush burns to embers I’ll crawl again. Hardly know I have a broken leg and dislocated shoulder. A laughable pain against thirst, my swollen tongue.
A pile of bricks in the bush is now my best chance.
I said I was going to crawl on when the bush burned down. I didn’t. I looked across the silvered land, a vista of rocks and dead trees lit by a thousand suns, and saw nothing but a cold and lonely ruin. I thought, Why not die here? Why struggle to another place that you are not?
Show Me The Sky Page 15